


welcome to the inner-workings of my mind

by arcticmonk



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Artist Zayn, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Innocent Niall, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Pining Zayn, Smut, Zayn-centric, break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcticmonk/pseuds/arcticmonk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Zayn tackles one of the darkest periods in his life, he finds a new muse in his crush on a certain jovial Irishman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	welcome to the inner-workings of my mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Ms Mr's Hurricane. Slightly AUish? Who knows, I'm just writing for kicks. Forgive any misuse of Britspeak. Comments, suggestions and other such leavings welcome. If any mistakes are spotted, let me know!

**Three**  
Hectic with wild energy after another successful show, what should be an ordinary tour bus is more like a madhouse than anything. Usually Zayn loves to be a node in the middle of the mess. Not pouring too much of his own energy into the wildness -- no, he's always been less than high-strung -- but at the very least sopping it all in and not missing a beat of it. Tonight though, Zayn doesn't much like it. Although he made quite a point to slink off and into his bunk after they were all ushered through the swishing mechanical doors, whatever he hoped to imply has gone right over the four other heads. The lads have been less than courteous. Two hours later they're still as loud as ever. Loudly talking over beers and laughing like hyenas at something on the telly. Through his headphones he can hear more than he'd like. And he hasn't put to paper even a single doodle. It's in frustration that Zayn at last snaps apart the curtain to his bunk and leans out almost to the bare waist. Meaning to scold them all naturally.

Any other time they'd be a sight Zayn'd laugh at gladly. Because what's going on at the front of the bus is exactly the madhouse he's expected. As the television flashes blue purple green and pink lights, his bandmates are more or less butchering what could have been a reasonable performance on one of those digitalized dance routine games. Harry's front and center with a fan donated hula skirt latched on around his waist, over his pants, and doing nothing to hit any of the right steps. Liam's clapping rhythmically and really putting his head into the song, laughing more than dancing while Louis sings along in an exaggerated warble to something Justin Bieber. Lou's all hand gestures and squinched eyes. And Niall. He has to remind himself of his anger when he notes where Niall is in it all. Forever unapologetic of his own disgusting food habits and general wants, Niall's not even trying. He sits on the closest counter, squeezing cheese spray straight into his mouth.

"Hey, you lot." Zayn waits for four sets of eyes to find him. "Keep it the fuck down out there, yeah? Some of us are lookin' for like artistic inspiration and all that shit, alright?"

"Not so sure it counts as creatively inspired when you're only tossing off with the left rather than the right, Malik."

When Harry smirks a laugh, Liam thumps him polite and half-chastising right above the navel. Both of them school their faces into neutrality but Louis stays smiling wider than ever.

"No worries, we'll quiet down."

Zayn's glowering so hard he barely hears poor Liam. "Fuck off, Lou. How 'bout that?"

He draws the curtain hard across it's accompanying rod. But he still hears Niall's food stuffed accent clear as day.

"Nah, lads. Think he really don't feel that well."

Irritability. Moodiness. Restlessness. The American leg of their tour is winding to an end and Zayn knows he shouldn't be so surly. Not with several weeks vacation waiting to loom up and meet him. But surly he is. As reliable as the moon's shifting phases Zayn recognizes the changes in his own demeanor and behaviors as surely as he'd notice a new spot on the skin. He didn't mean to snap or curse so pointedly. Not he of the extended Buddha like silences and contemplative toking. But he can't take it back now.

In fact, while he knows exactly what's making him such a difficult case there's exactly nothing he can do about it. It's not so much a fame thing as a him thing. While plenty has changed since he was that meek doe-eyed kid afraid to move even his lips, yet alone his hips, at his core Zayn knows he's the same. Slow to anger. Reserved into himself. Especially needy of his own space when he's nothing else to rely on. Yes, this is about the time he always feels like retreating into his own personal nest. And that want of a break is a louder call than ever the past few days. What with him and Perrie fighting again and all his positive, grinning energy pumped into the stage, reserved for the fans who wait in droves. At the end of it all there's hardly any shit left for his mates. The only thing to do is wait. All he needs is a break.

True to Liam's promise the boys move onto something less noisy. Zayn's able to slide his earphones down around his neck and he directs a careful ear to listen to the lull of bus tires. Smooth sailing and the rise and fall of polite conversation. He's finally begun scratching something to his notepad -- hesitantly doodling at last -- when he's almost startled by the clearing of a throat at his elbow.

"Oi, Z. Can I join you?" 

The curtain doesn't completely obscure his blue-eyed friend. All earnest squinting and the sound of a peppermint rolling around on his molars.

Niall.

"Dunno, mate." Zayn's pencil slows to stop, considering. They're bigger boys now than when the five of them first began all this. But he and Niall are particularly good at finding ways to tangle limbs, rearrange elbows and somehow find comfort. Niall's also an especially deep sleeper. Which works well against his broken up slumbers and stormcloud gray half dreams. Of which there have been too many lately. And even better when he too is as hard to rouse as rock. Somehow they always complement rather than clash. "D'you still smell like bacon cheddar? Or will you pass the sniff test?"

"That really a question?" Niall's grin flashes into place as big and as genuine as ever. "Would never dare disturb the prince's chambers smellin' like Cheez Whiz. Hooked as I am or not." 

Convinced, Zayn nods him in without ceremony. Easily laughing, easier to please Niall. Who, in his hoodie and gym shorts, budges in with bumping knees and broader shoulders and, horror of horrors, actually fishes his sticky melting sweet out of his mouth in offering.

"You know. Lou'll be around with an apology in the mornin' or soon enough. He's always taking things a touch too far, innit he? Wanna pull?"

"Ah, fuckin' disgusting, Nialler." Zayn shoves the hand out of his face and tries not to smile at Niall's burst of laughter. "No, I don't wanna fuckin' pull. You're demented. But." Zayn inhales slow and releases the breath with a puff. "Yeah. Of course I know he will. Should probably apologize myself to Liam I guess." As slow as anger is to hit him, it's only quicker bleed out of him. He's not angry with Louis despite his short words. And he knows he was a right dick yelling right over Liam as he did. Currently, it seems, he's found his calm again. Zayn's not even worn out as he usually is after a confrontation. 

Actually. There's a flicker of something as he watches Niall suck a drip of candy tacky saliva off of his thumb. Inspiration. This shoots through him so suddenly that the scrunch in his nose is gone in a nanosecond.

"Don't worry about me and Louis. We'll be fine. But listen. Sit there a mo', would you?"

Niall quirks a brow up but he obliges. He stays still as Zayn flips to a new page in his sketchbook and doesn't say anything as Zayn commences moving his pencil about again. Zayn's quick with the first curves and angles at least. And though he takes care to get the fingers right, the peppermint held almost daintily between them, Niall remains infinitely patient. All the bad stuff in Zayn's head leaks out. By the time he reaches the dimple on Niall's chin, Zayn feels a new bloom of heat swimming in his gut and climbing into his chest and fanning through his cheeks, very nearly infusing them with color. He's only beginning to wonder if he wants that peppermint after all, if maybe he wants to suck it right from between Niall's surprisingly gentle fingers, when the other boy speaks up. 

"Hey, question." Zayn has the uniquely terrifying yet thrilling sensation of wondering if his thoughts have been read. ( _Would you like to suck more than sweets? Have yourself a pull of something nice, long and Irish?_ ) But that passes quickly. "You're goin' home for break, yeah? None of this Majorca or Nice rubbish, right?"

"Yeah, doin' just that." Zayn's voice comes out even and that's good. "Headin' on home. I don't have anywhere else to be really. Why's that?"

"'M not personally. Don't quite feel like it this go 'round. So I wondered. Think I could crash at yours?"

With anyone else he may have hesitated. Zayn does have reasons for every brick in his built walls after all. Love the boys as he does he needs his space for his sanity and lacks nothing when he lends himself to his solitude. But somehow Niall's different. Fucking Niall with his sticky lickable fingers and his bright, curious eyes.

"Yeah, bruv. No problem, you can crash at mine."

 **Two**  
Somehow, inexplicably, Niall proves to be exactly the sort of company he needed. Of course, Zayn tells himself that he'd prefer to be alone but the Irishman's a welcome reprieve from his own mopey thoughts. Niall almost gets them kicked out of a cab. They share music and idle gab on the plane. From Heathrow to the tube to thinly crowded streets, Niall hits him with accent after accent. Giving him the sorts of impersonations and dry wit punchlines that make him practically piss laughter. They're all but in their own worlds and on the outskirts of that the city welcomes them back busier than ever. Always some noise or loud talk or honking horns. The bustle of things. To the point that the moment they step into the stillness of Zayn's two story the difference is like a cold wash.

All of the noise might have annoyed the fuck out of him on a bad day but even then he's sure he'd take that over anything else. The silence is oppressive. He feels a criminal banging open his front door to utter emptiness. It's unnerving. A clock ticks somewhere in the kitchen and the alarm beeps their arrival but the air is all stale. Shut in. 

His once fianceé hasn't been around in weeks. 

That Perrie shaped emptiness, her absence, is loud as sirens.Their first steps inside feel all wrong. And the previously promised grand tour of the place feels hollow somehow. But he does his best. He thinks he even makes a good show of it. Niall humors his cardboard jokes and makes a game of kicking off his trainers in the mini doorside football goal. He gives out a festive WOOP! at the extensive listing of local take-away restaurants. He's trying as much as Zayn is for some normalcy and for that Zayn appreciates him for that. Hell, loves him all the more for it. Yet the itch of something missing bothers him as they make their way up the stairs.

"And here, this is mine." 

It's not until he switches on the light that the realisation really pings through him. Their bed is made far more precisely than she'd ever make the thing. Boils his blood that she had housekeeping tend to it. Worst still, all of her clothes are stripped from the closet. Every pair of high-heel and flat gone from the closet. The loo's missing her cosmetics. All of her sleek perfume bottles disappeared from the dresser. The note on the bed, dripping with sarcasm and one too many four-lettered words, coupled with the ring that Harry helped him pick out special, makes this disagreement at last more final than the rest. She's gone, really gone, and the visceral awareness of the matter hits him much like a blunt fist.

With the note crumpled tight into his fingers, he slings the ring towards the bin --

injury to insult he bleeding _misses_

\-- and feels his throat lock tighter than tight. Zayn doesn't know why he should but he almost expects Niall to make the whole matter worse. Niall, who's staring at him with some unreadable expression on his face. Not quite pity he thinks but how the fuck's he supposed to know? For fear of welling up he can't look at him. Zayn keeps his jaw set and still honestly. But he can feel his eyes on him. Knows the heaviness in the air is Niall's wheel of thought grinding into gear. He wants him there, he prefers Niall here with him (weird as _that_ shit is) but he's not up for teases at his expense. He doesn't want to know what an arse he is letting her walk right out. And he doesn't want a more serious talk neither. He doesn't want to explain the rows about confusion that isn't confusion at all. Certainly he doesn't want to ridicule her at her most awful to someone who wouldn't understand - couldn't understand - the special way that they once fit.

Thankfully, Zayn needs not worry about any of that end. 

Niall emits a low hum finally but this doesn't lean heavily towards any kind of judgment. The Irishman doesn't ask questions. Or tell him to relax. He doesn't even give him any of the old clichés about how it'll be fine. That there other fish in the sea. Or, delusion of delusions, ensure that she'll be back if she knows how good she had it.

Instead of all that. Shit. Even instead of the foot and mouth way he normally blurts the unmentionable and laughs it all off after, Niall squeezes the steel out of each of Zayn's shoulders. And as though it's the most natural thing in the world he kisses the nape of Zayn's neck. First high where the short hairs all but blend to his skin. Then lower where dark ink has joined with browned skin. Light like the hazy shadow of lyrics he can't quite form right. A thought he can't quite grasp. 

Zayn has to close his eyes to gather himself it's so unexpected. Inwardly, he's forced to deal with the frenetic surge that stirs him in a way he doesn't want to be stirred right then. It's not the exact time to profess his love and devotion. (Anyway would Niall even believe him with his eyes hot and his spin ramrod straight?) and so he hopes the whole while not to hear 'Lemme get a look at you' as he so often does when Niall knows something's up. If he hears that he'll break. He'll give in for sure.

Exactly how that'd go he's not certain but he has a solid idea. If Niall turns him around he'll do something he regrets. Merciless and one-track minded he'd forego all his waters run deep sentimentality. He'd kiss Niall reckless and full, mayhap. Drag him right onto the bed and paw open his jeans. Bite at his jumper. Demand something of his friend that's rough and out of sync entirely with his own soft-natured character. Something that might make Niall look at him differently if he doesn't want it and downright avoid him if he does.

Because, playing to the fucked up creature that his distress is, Zayn wants to muddy up what's right and what's wrong and to hurt as much as he's hurting. He wants to dig fingers until he turns pale flesh blue and purple. To scratch and tear and demand Niall meet him eye to eye. To make certain someone, even if not Perrie herself, understands that he's real and he's raw and yes yes yes he fucking aches from the inside out. He wants to fuck Niall until he's sore and babbling. It's the reality of that that makes facing him directly a chore.

"Alright there?" The murmur is against his neck. So sweetly intoned that he can forgive the fumbled question's utter lack of grace. Niall gives him a tight 'round the middle hug once he seems past the highest peak of his anger. Then pats the flat of his stomach. Friendly like. Just like that the rest of his hurt recedes. Doesn't go away but the prickle behind his eyes loses its urgency. His throat starts to work once more.

"'Malright." And to Zayn's surprise he discovers the loosest definition of the word to be true. He doesn't tear through the home as he'd like and he definitely doesn't take it all out on Niall. Zayn simply pats the back of that questioning hand and gives it a squeeze. "Will be anyway."

"Then... Know what? I'll order us some take away. We'll put on something funny."

Half an hour later they're sprawled in the living room on the carpet. Zayn didn't think that he really wanted to eat but once their delivery arrives he realizes he was wrong about his own appetite. He picks at Niall's rice and wontons with his chopsticks. Finishes half of his own lo mein in record time. Strips a piece of naan in half, ruminates over every chewed bite. There's beer and casual chatter and too much food for him to devour really. Yet the assorted containers of Chinese and Pakistani seem to make Niall happy. The other boy's gone through them like a terror.

By halfway through the slapstick comedy playing Zayn has started to feel a little more like himself. His thoughts as he watches Niall in motion are far less dark now. More lust than pain, always the lust is there, yet the reckless monster that's his own anger has taken a much needed hike. Zayn can watch him tenderly now. In the way he so often does when the others discredit him as half-asleep or in a mood or simply just aren't paying attention to his stillness. Appreciate him as Niall deserves to be appreciated.

It's stupid, really it is, but Zayn takes special note of everything about him. The way Niall bows forward elbows to knees, his smile constant. How he works his chopsticks between his fingers like getting ready to play a set on the drums. The ease with which Niall clicks them together when he's done to expertly pluck up bits of cashew and chicken and even stalks of the green stuff he claims not to like. More than anything Zayn considers the working of his body. How his shoulders and his sides move when he howls laughter. How there's a thin trail of brown hairs that disappear into his jeans like a secret. Where he really gets lost though is at Niall's mouth. How his lips fall open and closed when talks with his mouth all but full. How soft and pink those lips are. And no sooner that he's off of that it's onto those eyes.

"You with me, Z?"

Zayn loves - yes, loves - how those eyes crinkle at the corners and his smile grows larger than life when he really gets going. How everything's bright and new and worth everything in them. Maybe he's had one too many beers.

"Ah?"

"I asked if you saw that? Classic, that is. So ace." Niall's actually wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Bless him.

"Really ace." But, no, Zayn hardly knows what the plot is any more. "Say, Ni?"

"Mm?" Niall slurps up a noodle with the intonation and Zayn fully expects to be struck dead for the most unholy of thoughts.

"You feel up to goin' to the studio after?"

"What? Lay a track or--?" Halfway through the Irishman puts it together and realizes Zayn doesn't mean of the recording sort. " _Oh_. Yeah, sure. Y'never took me down there 'fore, you do realize. Feel up to drawin' or sommat'?"

Softly Zayn hums to himself, scratching two fingers under his chin. Then he puts aside a half gone container of chicken tikka masala. "Or sommat."

**One**  
The basement that's become his sanctuary is cool tiles and a multitude of installed lighting. Constantly bounding from one project to the next as he does, the place has the eclectic quality of something in flux and breathing. The thick white walls showcase more and more graffiti. Splatters and caricatures and abstract mess that helps him sort his head when he's manning those spraycans. The bulk of this a means of energizing his mood for the canvas. In all states, ranging from just begun to nearing completion, his creations stand their ground on islands and podiums. There's metal and wood. Paintings and ceramics. Odds and collected ends of mediums he's tried on for size lately and maybe liked, maybe didn't.

Niall makes a slow loop around the room. He stares into the maw of some sculpted creature. Half-cat, half dog. Raps an old trashbin's lid. And more delicately touches a half finished charcoal etching.

"And you want me to do what again? Get up on that seat and shake my arse? Give you a lil' bit of helicopter dick while I'm at it?"

It's Niall that Zayn's talked down to his pants. Niall who looked at him like this was the wildest idea in the world but agreed to pose. Yet he feels like the one who's laid bare here. Maybe because these are all of his inner most thoughts, beautiful or ugly, and Niall's the only one who's seen them in a long time. Maybe because Niall really does shake his hips a little. As though he's comfortable as the day is long being near starkers. The way Niall ribs him, Zayn thinks, is what keeps the mood light enough for him to want to go through with it.

"Oh yeah, give a little helicopter," Zayn's glad to say it with a laugh. "Do some jumping jacks. Or, y'know, like. Do like a normal person would and just sit in whatever pose's most comfortable for you." Using his fingers rather than a brush, Zayn finishes mixing a pigment of pink and wipes the excess on the denim of his jeans. "Think you can handle it?"

"Oh, well. I'onno, mate.," Niall sighs exaggeratedly. His accent's a touch thicker now. A little slurry around the edges. As though he were a bottle or two away from being entirely scuttered. He has all his wits about him when he climbs up onto the studio sofa though. Unashamed as always with his legs spread and his hands resting on his smooth thighs. Though he hesitated earlier -- Zayn wonders if that was because of the scar on his knee -- Niall seems completely alright now. "Tough being this beautiful but. I've got it under control me."

"Just make sure that's how you really want to sit." God, he hopes that's really how he wants to sit. Blue and white cotton hugging snug over bulge. He's tried not to look, tried not to consider Niall partly hard as he is, but it's fucking difficult to not. Niall's foot is in the sofa, his knee to his chin. Toes pressed against the cushion's edge. "Because I can't have you moving too much once I get started. Like fucks up the whole thing, d'you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I get you. Don't roll around and bodge up your creative process. Read you loud and clear."

They get started then. Him painting. Niall humming and singing and asking questions Zayn only vaguely recalls answering, never moving. With no outline or sketch to guide him he uses his brush but also his fingers along the waiting canvas. Loves the purely organic fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants nature of it. Every so often Niall cracks a joke. Says something completely daft like 'Why, you _are_ the mysterious one, ain't ye?' But for the most part things are still and good and peaceful.

Zayn doesn't know why then that the tears come at last. One moment he's fixing the set of Niall's shoulders. Using a paint speckled thumb to angle his head back the way it needs to go. The next his eyes are hot and his cheeks dampening slowly. Niall, lovable sod that he is, doesn't notice until Zayn's seated beside him. Hands knotted into his own hair, chin up. He feels Niall hovering more than he sees him. Hard to with the world all blurred over.

"Hey, hey. What's all this about then? Don't cry, mate, we were doing so good up 'til now. Makin' a mess of all me hard work."

"Can't help it." Zayn's voice cracks. His chest knots tighter. But he's glad it's not a full scale tantrum. That he's not wailing like a banshee and kicking things about. He's never been good at emoting but past a quiet fluttering panic he feels he can at least handle this. A mostly quiet release.

"Was tryin' to cheer you up here, yanno."

"I know, Ni. I know and it's good of you. Just--"

Zayn never gets as far as just what. One minute he's arming tears away with his shirt sleeve, fragilely collecting his composure. The next Niall's mouth closes on his light and sweet. Asking a million wordless questions that feather into Zayn all at once. It's tentative the hand that winds into Niall's hair, tugging near the nape of the other boy's neck, and then Zayn has to breathe a sigh. Into the kiss he returns to Niall with shaky breaths. Against the lip Zayn flicks his tongue across and very near sucks. The wind's been tugged delicately out of him by the time Niall pulls back, looking worried.

"'S that alright?"

Niall's got a buzz still. Zayn can hear it in his voice and see it in his low lids but he's not completely pissed. It wouldn't be taking advantage. But then. He doesn't want it to feel like an obligation either. Automatically, Zayn starts to give him an out. They can pretend neither of them ever tried a thing if Niall has to have it that way.

"You don't... We can go back up and watch telly or somethin'. I. I still love her y'know. That's the rough thing 'bout it. I'll get over it though, won't be upset forever."

"No, I'm good on the films. And you don't... Zayn, you never have to stop loving her if you can't help it. I'm not gonna make you do that. Wouldn't dare. But I do want to give you this, 's that fine? I really do want to. Okay?"

Zayn's answer is the firmer push of his mouth. The grateful sweep of his tongue. Niall's seeking hands push his shirt off, unbuckle his low-hanging jeans, dry the wet places on his face, nails scritching once through the scruff on his cheeks. Zayn doesn't know how they make it to the stairs to the bedroom -- "Got some slick there," he's said, gasping into Niall's mouth -- but somehow they do, gaining traction and losing themselves fast, shedding Zayn's clothes in forgotten puddles along the way. Then the bed and he's so glad for it, so glad for Niall's flushed pink skin and none too polite curses, that he doesn't know what to do with himself. When Niall's pants come down and off at last Zayn's undeterred from staring. Not by the lips that wander his ink and the tongue that traces every design (though fuck that does feel good) not by anything. In a few short minutes Niall's gone from stiff to wet at the head, hard enough that he bobs up against his own belly. He doesn't cover himself, Niall, nor outwardly remark on any shame, but when Zayn leans over him for the dresser the paler boy's face is hot and branded with what very well could be modesty.

"Y'blushing, mate?" Zayn's not in any position to crack jokes, practically fumbling the lube and condoms out and all. Plus, he feels twice as hard himself. So ready after all those weeks on the road that he's apt to bust immediately. But he can't help himself from smiling.

"Tell anyone and I'll kill you dead. Twice." The threat of it is extra serious when coupled with those kisses under his chin.

"Yeah, yeah. Takin' your secret to my grave."

Zayn stills all over again when Niall's short nails scratch up a wrist and squeeze into his forearm. "And go easy 'bout it, alright?"

"Yeah, I get it. Never done back-end before. I'm not gonna go tubing up there or anything."

Zayn spills the slick into a palm, scoots himself close again and almost misses the mumble. Maybe because he's so preoccupied rubbing the pads of his fingers between Niall's arse-cheeks. And how Niall's whole body sort of heaves up with his thighs parting to give him room.

"Didn't catch that."

"I said--" Niall's chin tilts up and for a moment he has a premonition of exactly what Niall will look like in the throes. Patchwork red wreaking havoc on his chest and neck. His mouth open and his lashes fluttering. Then his head dips around and, rudely as far as Zayn's concerned, Niall pinches his nipple. "I said any of it. Haven't done. Front or back-end."

Zayn pushes the hand off his abused nipple (which did nothing to deserve such abuse, thanks much) and the confusion of it takes a moment to register. Then everything grinds into place. "A virgin then? Niall, I thought you said..." He's remembering a smattering of photographs taken over a Christmas holiday with a redhead. How delightedly they all teased him and made jokes about chestnuts roasting over an open fire.

"I didn't say anything. You lot. All you lads assumed. So. Y'know. Kill you dead twice if you tell them any of that either." Even though the rubbing has slowed almost to stillness (Christ, is he sensitive there) Niall's still rocking his hips shallowly and biting his lower lip, chest heaving.

"Well. Niall. It's. A big, powerful moment. Doing this whole thing for the first time." He's shite at this and his fingers are just itching to push in past the fingertip but he feels, wildly, that something should be said to the point. "If you want--"

"Z, do you want to fuck me or Dr. Phil me?" A kiss against Zayn's right ear softens the words. "This is right. It's okay. I'm dying for it." Niall's hips tilt up, just so, when Zayn gives him another deliberate rub. The shaky breath his friend lets out -- an _oh_ all drawn out -- convinces him that easy. 

Working Niall up to it isn't so dash and go as he might have originally expected but no part of Zayn dislikes the process. Little by little he learns the small ways to cave Niall's stomach. To make his thighs tense and his hips lift and the color stand out on his chest. Zayn opens him up one bit at a time. Middle finger first, coaxing the clumsy dip of his hips, then the ring finger next. Between the flex of his wrist and the thrust of his fingers, his mouth rarely failing to leave bruise staining kisses on his hips and belly, Zayn asks Niall how much he likes it. Asks if Niall likes being opened up so good, if he can't wait to get fucked. And Zayn's understandably patient when the first abrupt wave bowls his friend over all at once, leaving Zayn to start almost from scratch.

After the stammered apologies and open-mouthed kisses Zayn's more careful. He figures out fast exactly how Niall likes to be sucked off. With one hand squeezing him around the base and a mouth bobbing sure and fast around him. Little slides of tongue along and under his foreskin just to make good on it all. He likes it lingering. With Zayn making plenty of eye contact and letting the saliva build. Figuring out how gentle or how firm to be, how to edge him close but not too close, is something Zayn not only accepts but insists on.

Niall's all sweat damp at the temples and trembling when finally Zayn makes room for himself. Not just his fingers or his tongue 

\-- oh, how Niall called out when he did _that_ ; threatened to brain Zayn he shook so bad --

but the full wanting length of him. One rigid centimetre after the other until he's in to the hilt and he's never felt anything so good hot and tight. Zayn actually swallows the lurch in his middle when he recognizes this for what it is. That no matter whatever mouths or hands Niall's had on him this part of him is all his. Niall is all his. Zayn's hand works loose around Niall's shaft, pumping the sensitive skin measured but steady as at last Zayn guides his hips into it. Circling a touch. Leaving off just a shallow bit before working his way back in. Niall a dream and a half not just underneath him but around him goes from stiff and wincing ("Jesus, softer. What're you a fuckin' ram. Fuck, Zayn.") to looser and looser still. Niall's knees press in, slip up, hug. And in time his arms are around him, his hands are clutching on with no remorse or apology. His lips are fluttering all over Zayn's skin, tasting exertion and licking and sometimes closing around to leave marks of his own. It's hypnotizing when Niall catches hold of the rhythm. Zayn's blind to all else when Niall really begins to run away it.

"Didn't give you anything."

Niall's panting in that way Zayn's started to recognize already. Those blue eyes all blown out and hazy, barely seeing Zayn when he bows head to kiss Niall's chin, his collarbone, up the length of his neck.

"Gotta speak up," Zayn manages against his mouth. Finally he trusts himself to quicken, to move the bed with their combined weight. To further wrinkle and tousle the sheets as he rocks skin to skin harder, faster, worrying only briefly if he's left Niall behind. Because he feels Niall joining in the effort with him not a beat later. Zayn's losing it fast now as the headboard staccatos against the wall. And though before he wanted this only for vengeance he thinks of Perrie not at all now. Instead, Zayn's motivated by the desperate lusty look on Niall's face. As though his friend isn't sure whether to curse, laugh or cry. Those fingers pawing at his back, scratching up his neck, digging into his shoulders as he strikes the angle he wants and keeps hitting exactly where it'll affect Niall the most.

"Said." Niall's voice breaking apart. Turning to tatters and shreds, keening. "I said. Oh, Jesus. Don't matter. Just. Ohfuckme."

He's come twice already Niall has but this one is the real show-stopper. The gasp from Niall freezes his mouth open to Zayn's neck and the way Niall's hips have been moving, getting the swing of it at last, go all nonrhythmic before they lift and lurch and lurch again. Zayn feels him tighten from the inside out, feels his own cock pulse with the new cinch of muscle and then the quick wet pumps of climax that spurt between their bellies all at once. As much as Zayn'd like to hold on -- to pull it to a finer and finer point until they're both babbling crazy-- he can't manage it. Not with Niall all glove tight around him and murmuring profanities into the hollow of his neck. When he tumbles after Niall there are no thoughts towards being gentle or easy or careful. Zayn holds his hips tight enough to bruise and pistons towards climax after him. Groaning into skin and biting kissing abusing Niall's mouth Zayn's overcome entirely by how fucking good it is. Like being hit with a sonic blast.

Zayn's ears are still ringing when he slows, the thin sheathe between them sticky around his cock now. And what was true in the beginning rings true in the end. That Zayn can hardly stand how much Niall turns him on. To the point that he'd even endure his own spill for a few hours more if it meant staying huddled close. Still. Though pulling out of his friend is like the loss of something that Zayn wants back immediately he does so. He's grateful that, when the condom is tied and slung away, Niall bless him so fucking much is direct about pulling him close again.

"What were you saying, Ni?" There's an ache in his shoulders and Niall's dug scratches into his back but he likes the sting of both. "I kind of. Sorta missed that." Amazing that that cracked shot to pieces voice is all his. Zayn keeps it at a mumble, automatically sliding himself up against Niall's side.

"I was just." Niall's left hand is on his face. His eyes closed and his teeth in his lower lip. But before Zayn can worry properly he's twisted himself to his side. A knee knocks into his own before slipping between, riding up to press against his thigh. "I didn't give you anything," Niall repeats then. Clearer now. Looking annoyed about something. "You gave me all that and I just. Didn't give you anything back, did I?"

Zayn fights a smile. He doesn't mean to offend but really. "Nialler. That's. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"Oh, golden, mate. Don't have to be a twat about it."

When Niall shoves his face, Zayn shoves back. If not for Zayn budging over and bumping their foreheads together, they might have slipped right into a game of slaphands or dickpunchie. Which. Zayn is feeling a little too lazy for either. "It's not that," he promises.

"Then what?" Niall rolls his eyes but relents. He doesn't make to box Zayn's ears. Simply relaxes into the massaging knead of Zayn's fingers at the small of his back. "Love t' hear this one."

"It's that. Well. You gave me everything, you arse. You came out here to be with me when you knew I couldn't handle it on my own." Zayn reads the scrunch of Niall's nose very clearly. "Yeah, I'm onto you, Horan. Not a bloody idiot. And then." Zayn's never been too good at long eloquent speeches or thorough arguments but he finds the right words now. Maybe he's helped along by fingers tracing down his shoulder. Whatever the case, what he relates is exactly what he feels all the way down to his sometimes patchwork core.

"And. You gave me you, Niall. There's not a price in the world you can put on something so valuable."

Nothing else needs to be said and so he refrains from overstating the point. The glow speaks for itself. Niall's radiant warmth and the goodness in himself that he feels blanketing and putting to bed all his angers and frustrations. They won't be gone forever and he knows that he's not fixed. Maybe he won't ever be fixed. But he trusts in that glow. No, more than that.

He trusts in Niall.


End file.
